


Protective Coloration

by Cluegirl



Category: Avengers 2012
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from Jenna Thorn for a blow job gift-fic -- "Let's go kinky, shall we? Clint/?? , undercover, being watched by either the baddies or by whoever's covering him on that particular mission, be that Coulson, Romanov, Rogers, random SHIELD or Interpol agent."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protective Coloration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jenna_thorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/gifts).



Clint hit the supply closet two minutes and forty seconds late, bleeding from a graze below his shoulder, and with pursuit far closer onto his tail than was ever in the plan. He skidded in sidelong, flinging his weight back against the door and snapping the lock into place.

"It's not my fault," he tried.

Coulson looked about as convinced as was reasonable, and flung a bundle of cloth at his head. "Where's Romanov?"

"Slipped her leash," he said, tossing his bow and quiver over and ripping loose the catches on his bracers and gloves. "Last seen leading about two thirds of the guard force toward the roof. I think she's planning to either lock them up there or push them off one by one." He sat on the copier to unzip his boots. "Hey, did you know that Bojus was bent?"

"I care because?" Coulson answered, snatching Clint's uniform in pieces as it came off and tetrising it all into a briefcase.

"No, seriously; bent hard. That big ass desk of his? Hollow. Bottom part slides out. Tie down points and everything." Clint slipped the shirt on, buttoning fast. "Secretary fits right inside."

"Well that explains the alarms," Coulson grumbled as he snapped the briefcase shut and stashed it beside the copier. "Get your pants on," he said, catching up a pair of dress shoes and kneeling at Clint's bare feet.

"Heh. That's a switch."

"The switch comes later, _Agent._ Assuming you're a good boy and don't get us killed in the next two-" 

Footsteps pounded past, rattling with testosterone, guns, and radio chatter. The noise stilled the both of them for all of a second. Then the pants were on, button, zip, and Coulson was yanking his left foot up to jam it into cool, stiff leather. "We're still on plan," he said. 

Clint snorted, fingers full of half-Windsor at his throat. "Natasha's got the upper third of the building into lockdown. Local PD is five minutes out at best, and the rent-a-grunts are between us and Reception. We are so not walking out of here by the front door!"

The right shoe went on, and then Coulson was on his feet, grabbing Clint's tie right out of his fingers. "Get on your knees and say that."

Clint swallowed, keenly aware of roughly half his blood going AWOL from his cognitive processes and running for the southern border. "Uhm..." Not that he was complaining -- in fact, parts of him had begun to applaud already, -- it was just that sexual favors and disciplinary actions weren't usually a thing that happened _during_ a run.

Coulson gave him a shake and a shove, then whipped aside his buckle and zip. "Do I need to draw you a map?"

"Fuck no," Clint answered, dropping, reaching. Coulson sported a semi already, and there was only one little button between Clint's tongue and the unexpected mid-mission reward. Fucking button didn't stand a chance. He took enough time for a deep sniff, relishing the way his mouth flooded with heat at the musk and sweat. Then he licked, tasted soap, adrenaline-sweat, hunger. He sucked the hardening cock all the way down while he could, pressing his nose into crisp, damp curls while Coulson's fingers wound tight into his hair.

Sparks of pain just made it better. Growing pressure against his throat as Coulson's dick got harder, longer, pressed his soft palate up high and made breathing through his nose a thin, whistling prospect. Clint felt his gag reflex struggle as the heavy, silky weight slid over the back of his tongue. He turned it into a yawn and suckled harder, crowing inside at the feral sound Coulson made above him. All the way up now. Clint pulled back long enough to breathe properly, tongue out to lick around the purple, leaking head, eyes fixed on Coulson's flushed cheeks and the hectic, hungry light in his blue eyes.

One glimpse was all he had before Coulson shoved him back to work with a groan and a snap of his hips. Clint pressed the heel of his hand against his own cock, rocked his wrist back and forth as he sucked and pulled and slurped like a fucking pornstar who just might be shot by security at any goddamned moment but would by God die happy if he was.

The door rattled hard. Coulson whacked back at it with his fist. "Fuck off!" Then he pulled Clint's face down again, deep and hard, hiding his features in the folds of his pants when the flimsy lock on the supply closet door gave way to the inevitable security boot. 

"DO YOU FUCKING MIND?!" Coulson bellowed above him, and if Clint hadn't had his throat full of the man's cock, he'd have choked on laughter. 

Instead, he pulled back to the head and licked, knowing that none of these flunkies, straight, gay, or uncomfortably intrigued, would be looking anywhere but the confluence of cock and tongue. He could hear the muttered curses, disgust, unwilling fascination, alarm, and oh yeah, every one undercut with that shade of 'why don't I ever get sucked off at work' envy that would have guaranteed his anonymity even if he were to turn around and waggle his fingers at the lot of them. 

"Sir, there's been an incident in the building. We're looking for..."

"Jesus, do I look like I fucking care?" Coulson gritted as Clint sucked him in deep again, "Get lost!"

Most of them did, shuffling and muttering, but that one stubborn (hopeful?) shadow clung. "Sir, have you heard anything unusual? Maybe a strange noise in the... ductwork... or-" he grunted as Coulson grabbed him in close to snarl.

"Fuck... You're the only... strange-" Clint leaned in close as Coulson hardened just that little bit more, as the balls drew up tight against his chin. Three... two... His shoulder pressed tight against a knee where there hadn't been one before. "Fucking... Gaah!" Coulson jerked and thrust, pulsing hot over Clint's tongue while beside him, the hapless guard fought to keep his balance.

Clint finished swallowing and sucked back slow, ending with a soft pop and a loving lick. Coulson's knees were trembling. So were the guard's. He looked up with a grin and licked his lips, enjoying the haze of lust that warred with confusion in the stranger's face. Hmm. Apparently this fierce adherence to duty had really been a not-so-subtle bid for seconds. How cute. He gave the man an inviting smile and running his hand up the back of the man's thigh.

"Hi," he said, his voice so pornstar-rough you'd think he'd just had a cock down his throat.

The guard swallowed, still staring down, transfixed by Clint's wet, heated lips... right up until Clint jabbed the stun gun he'd swiped off his gun belt against his tight-strained inseam and pressed the trigger. Coulson, the bastard, just whipped the security pass off over the guard's head as he folded over Clint's head and dropped like a sack of potatoes. A two hundred pound sack of potatoes in riot gear. With a mauser in his hands. Dammit.

Coulson was dressed, pressed, and smug again by the time Clint had dumped the limp, drooling fucker off himself. "Ready to go?" he asked with a smile, brandishing the security pass in two fingers.

Clint smoothed his shirt down, the motion ending just over the thrust of his own, unsatisfied cock as it ruined the profile of his neat flat front trousers. "Ready to explode, more like. Don't I get a cookie?"

"We're short an agent, we're made as soon as your boyfriend wakes up, and we're running late for evac," Coulson replied, giving Clint's crotch a squeeze that was two parts proprietary, and three parts promise as they stepped back out into the hallway. "Don't be selfish." 

"If I die with a hard-on, I am _so_ going to haunt you," he promised, and pulled the door shut behind him.


End file.
